The Third One
by Piper Rivers
Summary: Leila is the adopted daughter of the Watson family. Since her brother, John, has returned from the army,they are running low on money and have to share a flat with a man named Sherlock.He takes them on crime investigations and somehow discovered more about Leila's past,which involves Moriarty.Would Leila be the dead end for Sherlock and John or would she be the key to a new door?
1. Chapter 1

_He is coming._

_My eyes search the dim surrounding, taking in every possible details as I try to look for a place to hide. Sprinting towards a tall bush, I knee behind it and press my small hands against my lips, sealing in any noises that can attract him. __Closing my eyes, I count to ten, willing myself to calm down. Just as I am about to reach nine, footsteps raise behind me. My chest tightens, and I wait for the moment of exposure._

"_Found you!" my brother, John Watson, jumps out of nowhere and shouts with a beam. My heart lightens when I see my brother, feeling more relaxing and at ease. Then, in a blink, his good natured face melts away and turns into my father's face, blurry yet dangerous._

"_Come on, love," he coos, his hands close around my wrist and collar, pulling me forward._

"_John!" I scream for my brother, my feet kicking and struggling. But my father's grip is tight._

"_Hush now, child. This will just be quick and easy," his words scare me, and a sharp pain of a needle tears through my arm. _

The morning light falls onto my bedding silently as I wake from my nightmare, sweats sticking my dark brown hair to my neck. "It was just a dream," I mutter to myself, recalling the nightmare in which John and I were just kids. But it seems so vivid. And strangely, I have been having the same dream for quite a few days.

It takes me a good few minutes to calm my distractingly fast heartbeat. A soft knock is heard and John's head pops up from behind my bedroom door. "Breakfast's ready…" he pauses, taking a second look at me, "you okay?"

I nod, not wanting to explain much or worry John.

He narrows his eyes a bit before telling me breakfast's ready again. My brother knows, but he doesn't push it.

I get up dreadfully and change into my clothes. Today is our big day, kind of. After John has returned from the war and me from my useless college, both of us are not able to find a job. The place that we are staying currently is not affordable anymore for us. So, all we can do is just to find a new flat to share.

John says this flat in 221B Baker Street is rather nice, though the man who is going to share a flat with us is a bit, special, according to his use of words. I am genuinely rather curious.

I wolf down my breakfast, with John frowning at me, and get onto a cab with him quite shortly afterwards. I honestly can't wait to meet our new flat mate. Perhaps he will be tall and muscular? Perhaps he will be blond with an American accent? I peek at John, who is sitting by the window stilly, his habit from army. Hopefully my brother won't be able to read my thoughts just from my face. But as everyone says, I'm an easy book to read. Sighing, I decide I should be the one to break the silence.

"John, what's our new flat mate's name?"

John glances at me before answering, "Sherlock Holmes." I guess I have made a face. Because John chuckles a moment later and goes on, "I know, weird name, huh? But he is very…gifted. You'll see."

My brother does know how to sell a good. I am dying to know more about this Mr. Holmes.

The cab shortly arrives at 221 Baker Street. Slowly, I follow behind John's lead and find myself stepping onto the Baker Street's milky white pavement. It's such a nice place. I can't help but look around once more, while John attempts to press the doorbell to the building.

"Good morning," a deep voice greets.

John startles, before turning with a polite smile and an outstretched hand, "Mr. Holmes."

Hesitantly, I glance up from the man's nicely polished shoes to his pale face. Big, black coat, blue scarf, high collar. I raise an eyebrow slightly at his unbelievably high cheekbones. His dark curls fit perfectly with his strong features while his pale eyes lock on me.

"I believe this is your sister, John?" he asks, his eyes not leaving me once. My cheeks start to burn when John nods.

"You have told him about me?" I ask, tearing my eyes away from this Mr. Holmes. Though this time, it is John who smile mischievously.

"No. Not even a single word."

"Then how did you know about our relationship?" I wonder out loud, staring boldly at Sherlock now. I can see he is resisting the urge to sigh dramatically. His pale eyes finally look away from me to the street, darting around and observing.

"By deduction. You two act and behave with similar patterns, indicate a close relationship to learn and apply each other's habits. But you are too young for his age to be his lover, spending too much time together as cousins. Conclusion, you are his sister. However, you two have very different appearance feature. One pale blond hair with light blue eyes, the other with dark brown hair and hazel eyes. Even the brows and facial bones structure are very different. Conclusion, you" he nods at me, doesn't even bother to look in my way, "are adopted."

I drop my jaw easily, so has John. Staring at him with wide eyes, I confirm each and every deduction of this man before us is a hundred percent correct. John mumbles something quietly in the background but I am too busy staring at the man before me. For a moment, Sherlock avoids our eyes and clears his throat. He almost looks like he is prepared to be pissed off. But yet, when I open my mouth, I can only find myself whispering, "that is just brilliant."

He blinks, then look at me, "What?"

John nods along and points at him, his eyebrows almost touching his hairline, "bloody brilliant." A light hint of smile and blushes appear on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock clears his throat again and walks towards the door, "let's take a look at our flat, shall we?" he is clearly desperate to change the topic. Somehow, a smile creeps onto my cheeks as I nod and follow. Half way up the stairs, I realize, embarrassingly, that I haven't introduced myself.

"Oh, and by the way," I starts, feeling the heat burning on my face, "my name is Leila. I'm going to move in along with John, too."

"Leila," Sherlock repeats. But his back is facing towards me so all I can see are his bouncing curls and swiping coat as he ascend the flights of stairs. Seconds later, he adds, "there's a room upstairs. Surely you can use it if we ask Mrs. Hudson, our landlady."

Shortly, we give a good look around the flat. It is decent and cozy. Well, at least that is how it is to me. The small fireplace is filled with piles of books. The wooden table is stacked with papers and works. The kitchen looks nothing like a place to store food. Sherlock has set a bunch of chemical works on it. I wonder what kind of job Sherlock does. John is probably wondering the same thing as he raises a questioning eyebrow at the messy diner table.

"It could be a nice place," John comments, glancing through the messiness in the house. I stiff a chuckle as Sherlock begins to push things out of sight.

"I like it," I add, hoping that will convince John to share a flat. Sherlock take a glance at me, his eyes unreadable and his face emotionless. Normal people would probably have a anxious feeling tickling their stomach but for me, his glance simply makes me more curious than ever. Rubbing the base of my jumper's sleeve, I scan around the flat again, having a feeling that John will want to settle in this flat as well.

"Great. Now maybe if Mrs. Hudson can bring us some tea..."Sherlock never finishes his sentence. Because just then, a man with grey hair races up the stairs and stumbles into the flat.

"Sherlock, there's a murder in..."it's a wonder how he can still speak with shallow and short breaths. The man pauses at once when his eyes fall on us, "you have guests?" he sounds surprised, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and exhales deeply, "I'm a consulting detective, if you're wondering." he is directing it at John, who looks startled and stares at Sherlock with jaw hanging again. Then, swiftly, Sherlock turns to the man with grey hair. If I am not wrong, his face lights up the slightest bit when speaking, "oh, is there a new murder now? This could be exciting! Almost like Christmas!"

So there, I take back whatever I have in store for this man's impression on me and watch Sherlock almost jumping on his heels in excitement. Then, he freezes. Glancing back at us, I watch him consider a few mental notes of his and asks, "are you interested in investigating a crime scene with me?"

And when I thought my brother would reject it immediately, being the always serious brother he is, John actually replies, without a second thought, "Thought you'd never ask."

Sherlock actually smiles this time, "could be dangerous."

Even though I don't want to interrupt this pair of blooming bromance, I raise my hand, "count me in."

Instantly, both men turn their heads towards me, one grinning one scoffing.

And I know, from that moment onward, my life in 221B is going to be an interesting one.


	2. Chapter 2

"Straggled to death. Judging from the skin's toughness, colour and her pupils, she is killed about an hour ago," John concludes, standing up from his kneeling position. I hold onto a breath, masking my emotions on my face carefully. Since my brother is already quite unhappy about me going onto a crime scene with them, I can't show fears and discomfort. Or else, John will have sent me back to 221B right away. Sherlock shifts and bends, moving and narrowing his eyes restlessly. I wish I could see what he is seeing. From his deductions that I have heard earlier on, I bet he is like reading an essay just from a look from the body before us.

Greg, turns out the name of the grey haired man is, crosses his arms in front of his chest and watches Sherlock closely. I stare down at the girl, letting the cruelty of death eats me inside out. Her wavy hair is spread out in a pool around her chalk white face. Her neck shows signs of harsh bruises and marks. Her face freezes at a look of mortification and horror. I can almost see the way she struggled as life drained out of her.

My eyes drag over her body, my ears picking up every noise around us. For some reasons, the crime scene gives me a chill in the spine, waking up every senses of mine, making me sharper than usual. I can hear the policemen chatting casually on the front line, some pacing by the police tap as their shoes make contact with the ground.

A wave of nausea settles in my chest as I realize how unnatural I am acting. I am almost like an animal in the wild, alert for the night and ready for the prey.

"Look, there," Sherlock says suddenly, cutting me short from my thoughts, which I am grateful for. I follow his cautious glance and see the purple trace of marks on the girl's neck. It's a line of bruises. Weird, almost like a-

"A chain or some sort. A necklace," Sherlock finishes my thought. I peek at him sideway, slightly proud at myself for getting to the conclusion that Sherlock just does.

"Sir," a young policemen runs by, panting lightly, "Found her wallet nearby. There are 500 pounds in it and a credit card."

John hums, "no money loss. So what does the murderer want?"

"Good," Sherlock looks approvingly at John as he takes the wallet from the policeman, "not as bad as I have thought." I swear to god John flushes.

"She must be really rich, too," I comment, blushing as I notice how lame my deduction is compared to John's. Sherlock nods, opening the wallet and inspects it carefully. Then, his brows crease. He looks back down at the girl's neck. Then scans the floor around the body.

"A necklace with a heart shaped charm," he mutters, eyes fixing on the girl's cold neck, "a wallet with large amount of money," he finishes with one final look at the little spot where the owner of the wallet can slip in a picture of some sort. There is nothing behind the transparent plastic frame. "Grey," Sherlock says with a sense of urgency and alertness, "lock this place up, check every space and room you can find. Though I don't think the murderess is still here. Just to play safe."

"What? So do you know who the murderer is?" Grey sounds astonished.

Sherlock scans around the parking lot, where the murder took place. Lastly, his eyes fall onto the exit in south. "Murderess," he corrects. "Come on!" he throws this back and sprints towards the exit, his black coat flying behind him.

John is the first to follow, leaving me gaping behind them. "What? Argh, fine!" I mumble frustratingly and run behind them. Grey is shouting orders and struggling whether to follow or stay suit behind us.

"Where are you going?" John asks inbetween breaths. But Sherlock doesn't even bother to answer. We take a turn down the street, race across the wet grass in order to cut into the crowded street faster. John gives up trying to find a logic from Sherlock's words. We stop abruptly once more when Sherlock halts back to glance around, narrowing his eyes at the moving crowds.

In a heartbeat, he points towards a direction. "Further down the street. There!" It is a rush of pushing and squeezing through, plus a few apologizes and curses. When we finally reach a rusty metal door in an alley, the rain has stopped, leaving us dripping with raindrops. "Arm yourselves," Sherlock warns and pulls out a gun from the inside of his coat. My jaw drops at this, my eyes widen even bigger when my brother does the same.

"Hey," I complain, "that's so not fair."

John ignores me with a roll of his eyes and creeps up the stairs behind the door with Sherlock. The hollow corridor moves up like a snarky sneak. A light bulb flashes and flickers as we walk past. The atmosphere is so thick you can almost taste it in the air. The walls are peeling off badly with molds sticking on them. I frown and tear my eyes away, staring at the little space that we are heading towards.

And when we have reached the low doorway at the top of the creaky stairs, there lies a dancing floor before us. Dusted glass floor tiles spread out and a pole or two are sitting in the middle of the dance floor. An underground club, I realize. Before me, Sherlock and John bend with their arms up, holding firmly onto their guns.

Somewhere in the club there must be a leaking pipe. The sound of drips echoes in the room, setting a cage of butterflies out in my stomach. I hold down the urge to scream and follow, my chest is mixing fear with…excitement?

My visions and every senses have perked up. I feel like I'm an eagle to the fish, a cat in the dark. I feel good…and belong. Leading us, Sherlock shifts and I watch his lips part, ready to speak when a spark bangs through the empty club, leaving a trail of sound of a gun shoot.

John whips around and I duck as he pulls his trigger. I widen my eyes in amusement secretly at how well we work together as a team. "Take cover!" Sherlock breathes harshly and dives behind a flipped over sofa when another gun shoot is sounded.

A chain of laughter lasts in the air, cold and hoarse. It sounds like it's thirsty for blood and lives. "Sherlock Holmes, the world's one and only consulting detective!" She shrieks. Another bullet is released, along with her outburst of giggles, "I am SO excited for this!"

"Jesus, she is crazy," John whispers, adding a swear word behind it. I note it down mentally just so I can nag him about it later.

Besides us, Sherlock calls out, "I know you killed her. This is three to one, you better surrender!" She screams with laughter and shoot her guns wildly. Instantly we pull our arms over our heads as some bullets reflect on mirrors and metal.

"Speak human, Sherlock," John sounds like he will punch anyone in any minute.

"It's three to two, actually," she sounds like this is some kind of video game, one that she favours and enjoys much. Next to me, John curses and turns. Kneeing on his knee, he fires his gun and the girl's scream sounds.

Her scream soon converts to gaping and sobbing. "John, contact Greg and tell him to send us some of his best men. I can't deal with idiots," Sherlock says as he stands, walking over to the girl's jerking body. John takes a moment to absorb his words before fishing out his phone from his pocket and starts dialing a number behind the sofa.

I stand as well, a nagging feeling keeps poking at me. "Sherlock, didn't she say we are three to two?"

"She's just bragging."

I frown, not really convinced at all. Then in a flash, a shadow hovers over Sherlock.

A man locks his strong arms around Sherlock's name, gaging him from behind. I curse, my instincts take over. Sprinting forwards, I squat and swing a leg under the man's feet. With a loud thud, he falls backwards, releasing Sherlock while he tries to prevent the fall with his hands.

Sherlock gasps for air rapidly, his face pale and eyes wide, "well, that's the only way to trick him out of his hole." I glare at him, not willing to believe this man just used himself as a bait.

But the story hasn't ended yet. Since I am the one who trips him over and Sherlock is in no state of fighting back, the man with faded scars on his face scowls at me and spats, "you little pussy. Out of the way!"

Anger boils inside me. Ignoring everything around me, a new emotion take over. My head seems to switch into another channel, one that is hard-drove in me yet I have not discovered until now. I take a step forward, bouncing on my foot as I go for a side kick on the man's head. Though he is fast. He grips on my leg in midair and pushes me sideway. I swallow a yelp and turns during the fall, landing swiftly on my knees. Then, in bending position like a cat, I jump forward and throw myself onto the man.

CRASH.

We crush a table with the man underneath me. He groans and I take the chance to throw a punch across his face. A little crack sounded under my fist. I gulp and try not to think about breaking bones. But the streaming blood is staining his face and my balled hand. It is until John pulls me back when I notice the man before me is already unconscious.

I have been punching him non-stop without even knowing it myself.

"Oh my god," John breaths, cupping my face in his hand, "are you okay? Bloody hell, Leila." He checks my hands and gasps at the purple bruises on my knuckles. My eyes set in distance as John mutters on in background. People seems to be rushing into the room, looking over all the places in their police uniforms. I take no knowledge of them all as I drown myself in shock.

I just killed a man. I killed a bloody man.

"No, you didn't," says Sherlock, his eyes quietly fix on me as he reads my face carefully. I become oblivious over the fact that he may be able to mind read and concentrate on calming myself down.

What is happening to me? I have never been so confused. Following Sherlock into this whole crime solving thing kind of bring up something new, perhaps old, in me. Something that is planted in me deeply, something that is related to the current nightmares that I have.

"Come on, let's go home," John says, putting a comforting arm over my trembling shoulders. I look over to Sherlock, whose face is unreadable as ever as the murderess behind us shouts in her hoarse voice.

"Jim Moriarty sends his greetings! He has warned me about you, Sherlock. And you little puppet, Leila!"


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock is definitely not happy.

No one dares to breathe a word. I try to occupy as little space as possible in the cab. John is staring straight ahead, his brows furrowing heavily, his lips thin. Sherlock watches out of the window as his face shows how grumpy he is.

Finally decide to break the silence, I cleared my throat loudly at the same time when John opens his mouth as well.

"You shouldn't have come."

I gape at him, eyes widen in surprise. I can't believe my brother is upset because of that. Even without speaking it aloud, I know deep down, he loves dangers. And I think I can connect to him on that. But now, here he is, being the love of troubles and adventures, John is rejecting the idea of me going on investigations.

"What? But that was fun!" I gasped at him.

Sherlock shifts next to me and I can feel him glancing at me, "fun?"

I nod, crossing my arms in front of my chest. John grunts and does the same, "I still don't like the sound of it. You're not coming with us next time."

I begin to protest loudly, though I'm not really sure what I blur out when I panicked. Besides me, Sherlock decides to cut in, "John, she likes it. Though I am as amazed as you are. But face it, you like the dangers as much as she does. You two have spent almost your whole life together, so why can't you understand her? Out of all people, you should be the person who truly understands her needs."

Blinking several times, I nod vigorously, absolutely agreeing with him. I can't believe Sherlock actually puts it into words. But as my chest is fluttering away and John is leaning forward in attempt to fight back, Sherlock speaks again, "but Leila, there's something different about you back there."

I swallow quietly, though I'm sure that didn't escape from his almighty eyes.

"What do you think?" asks Sherlock. I avoid his eyes slowly, not sure how I should put it into an answer. I do know something is wrong. But do I trust Sherlock enough to say it aloud? Exhaling, I run a hand through my brownish hair and reply.

"Yes, I do notice that, Sherlock. It's like, every sense in me just light up and I have no idea how I did it. But it's just like…breathing, you know? God, I can't even explain it," my cheeks heat up slightly as I fight to find the right words.

In front of me, John sighs. He looks out of the window for a beat, and I can see his brows smoothing. "Okay." He finally says, "But just to let you know, I don't like it. Back there you look just like the ones that I've seen in the wars."

I wait quietly, feeling relieved that John allows me to follow them to investigations, but nervous at the same time at what John is about to say.

"Like the ones who kill people in a blink. Like a killing machine."

Guilt immediately washes over John's face. I turn my face away quickly, absorbing his words. I can hear John mutter an apology in the background but I'm not listening. Something about his words, it doesn't just startle me. It kind of rings a bell at the back of my head.

Sherlock is silent for the trip back to Baker Street. I drag myself out of the cab once it has stopped. Letting John pay the charge, we ascend the stairs, ignore the questioning Mrs. Hudson, and drop ourselves onto the sofa. "I'm going to bed now," I breathe through my nostrils heavily as I rolled my eyes upward to stare at the standing figure of Sherlock.

In the kitchen, I can hear John cluttering away as he is preparing tea for him and our new flat mate. "Go catch some sleep, Leila. I promise I will wake you up if there's any new cases," he calls. I flush slightly as I realize how well John knows me. I can still hear him mumbling to himself. To play safe, I glance at Sherlock, who is picking stings on his violin now.

"You will wake me, yeah?" I whisper quietly, leaning forward so to make sure John can't hear us. It takes Sherlock a few seconds before acknowledging I'm talking to him.

'Oh," he seems startled for a bit. Then, to my relief, he nods and looks down at his violin. Smiling with content, I leave the living room and climbs up the stairs, not forgetting to bid the boys good night.

My boxes are still lining up by the walls, making my room even smaller when I thought it's not possible. Sighing, I drop myself onto the new bed that lies right in the corner. I'm going to pack my stuff tomorrow. Right now, all I need is rests.

Closing my eyelids, I let my mind drift towards the blurred line between reality and dreams.

_John, in his 17 year old self, is reading his book with great concentration on the sofa. Being the 7 years old that I am, I imitate him by holding my adoptive father's newspaper upside down, peeking at him by the wrinkled edges of the papers. _

_He catches sight of me. His eyebrow lifts and his face lights up with a smile. I beam back, turning and pretending to be reading the tiny words before me. Right next to us, the door to the kitchen is left ajar. From there, I can hear my adoptive parents' hushed talks._

_"We should have adopted her brother, too, really." That's mum, Mrs. Watson, who can baked the best cookies in the world._

_"Honey, we won't have enough money to raise both of them up along with John. I know. I do feel bad. But at least we are sure Leila doesn't know about it. When we adopted her, she is only one year old."_

_The smile on my face freezes. John, noticing my sudden change of emotion, listens with caution too._

_Mum clears her throat quietly and goes on, "but did you see her brother last time when we returned for some paper work? He does look quite upset…"_

_"There's something about that kid, alright. I'm not being criticizing or anything. But the way he looks at the other kids. You can just see it from his eyes."_

_John begins to move over to me, wanting to distract me with something else. But my ears continue to pick up on their heavy words._

_"I know. And when he saw us, he looked like he wanted to…" Mum's gone silent. Dad continued her sentence wearily._

_"Maybe it's a good thing we didn't adopt it."_

_Glancing up, I meet John's eyes with blurry vision._


	4. Chapter 4

I wake up with huge bags under my eyes. "Morning, Leila-" John stops at once when his eyes fall on my face, "Jesus, what happened?"

I growl and slump into his chair in front of the fireplace. Sherlock is scanning through the newspaper of today. "Nightmare," Sherlock answers it for me. His over intelligence gives me a slight headache right on the spot. I frown and close my eyelids against the bright sunlight. John hums and chooses his spot on the sofa, the strong smell of coffee hangs in the air.

"Can I have a cup of coffee, too?" I ask with an air of despair. Usually, I don't drink coffee. I just don't like it. But today, I feel like downing a cup of caffeine. "No sugar or milk. Black coffee."

I can feel John's frown upon me. But in a beat, he gets up and makes me a cup of coffee as well.

"Cheers," I mumble and take the mug from John. A brief moment of silence floats in air before I decide to break it, "So, what are we doing today?" I can't wait to go on another investigation with Sherlock and John so I can get rid of my bloody nightmare. In fact, the strange part is that, it is not at all a nightmare. It's almost like an extract from my past memories. The day when my parents talked about my other sibling in the orphanage. The one that they didn't adopt. My stomach does a flip at the thought. I am very grateful towards the Watsons' family. They treat me like I am truly one of them. But thinking this mysterious and unwanted sibling of mine. It gives me a chill on my back.

John coughs awkwardly, causing me to look up at him, "I erm, have a date tonight."

I widen my eyes in surprise. Sherlock doesn't even shift in his spot. But I have a feeling he is catching every words carefully.

"I'm having dinner with Sarah tonight." Despite my discomfort from the lack of sleep, a smug smirk creeps onto my face as I inspect John's reddening face. The silence heaves on John's shoulders. He clears his throat again and says, "Sherlock, any plan for today?" I can see he is desperate to change the topic.

I chuckle quietly, only to have caught a breath in my throat when I hear Sherlock's answer, "I'm taking in two eyeballs and a pair of feet today." The hot coffee burns my tongue and drips onto my laps. "Leila will be coming with me."

"What are they for?" I find myself asking in amusement.

"Experiments. Of course, if you have anything better to do, you are more than welcome to-"

A list of housework and job hunting flash through my head. "You kidding me? Of course I'm going."

John narrows his eyes on us. I guess knowing his sister is going to collect dead body parts isn't what you call a pleasant idea.

"Right," John huffs and places his mug down, "I will be out now to get a present for Sarah. It's her birthday today."

"When can I meet her, John?" I ask with a smirk. He scowl and leaves the room with glowing ears.

"Good job." I turn to face Sherlock, who has the slightest hint of smile on his lips. "Grab your umbrella, we're going now." I grin and race upstairs.

And Sherlock is right, as always. The sky was glimmering with daylight at first. But when it's hit noon, a grey cloud drifts towards London, tiny bits of raindrop fall elegantly upon the pavements.

We get into a cab and head towards St. Barts. I am quite keen to meet Sherlock's colleague, Molly. When we have arrived, Sherlock leads me into a lab, after taking the elevator to the fourth floor. From what I have heard from John, Molly is very fond of Sherlock. I beam like a nutter at the thought, instantly getting a glare from Sherlock.

"You're up to no good," he comments.

"Thanks," I continue along the thought, only to have Sherlock muttering to himself.

Once he pushes open the door to the lab, I hear a voice squeaking, "Morning, Sherlock."

"Afternoon," Sherlock greets, taking off his coat in a swift movement. I frown at his oblivion. Molly starts murmuring apologizes about her wrong greeting when her eyes fall upon me. I swear her face changes from a shade of red to green, than blue.

"Oh, I see you have brought you friend with you," Molly breathes. I know what she's thinking. Her idea causes my face to heat up.

Immediately, I begin shaking my head like a mad man. "A colleague," Sherlock adds. I can see Molly starting to relax. I give her a smile while having a look around. Secretly, my heart sinks a bit when I chew over Sherlock's words. So I'm not even qualify as a friend?

Sherlock and Molly go into a room next door in a few minutes, talking about Peter's feet and eyes. I sigh, glancing from flasks to test tubes, being fascinated by literally everything.

Unfortunately for me, it takes Sherlock less than half an hour to finish what he needs to do. He is already putting on his coat when I take a final look at the random tubes. During the process, Molly and I chat a bit, and I am growing to like her more. "Do come and drop by sometimes, I mean if you want to," Molly begins to fluster, "it's quite boring when Sherlock comes alone…I don't mean he is boring but…"

I smile and place a hand on her arm comfortingly, "I get it. Sure, can't wait to see you next time."

She smiles in return and watch us leave the lab quietly.

Out in the corridor, the echoes of our shoes hit the walls the bounce back. I am almost making up my mind to ask Sherlock if he even knows about Molly's feeling for her when the light bulbs dim. "Sherlock?" I whisper, feeling more awake as ever. The light bulbs die, sending a pure sense of alertness into my spine. Sherlock stays silence. But I don't need his answer. Because in a blink, I have already whipped around and kick a masked man in the head. I pant slightly, surprise at my fast reflexes. Then suddenly, an arm closes itself around my neck.

My breaths get squeezed out of my lungs. But somewhere in the back of my head, I know struggling isn't the answer to get free. Behind me, I can hear Sherlock calling my name, then his voice muffles behind something.

There are two attackers.

I huff and drop myself onto the floor without a warning, surprising the man behind me. With a heave, I slide back between his parted legs and send the man crashing onto the floor. Gaining balance on my feet again, I swing my leg forwards and make contact with his head. The man's body lies motionless on the floor.

Snapping my head around, I watch Sherlock dodge and avoid punches from another masked man. In a flash, I catch his eyes. A message shines behind his orbits. Half wishing I truly understand what his eyes shown, I duck a punch and launch myself towards the masked man. He huffs. I push him onto the floor with me on top of him. Balling my fists, I send a punch across his cheekbone. Then another.

"Leila," Sherlock calls with a sense of urgency. I turn and get myself back up onto my feet as Sherlock pulls a revolver from his coat. A loud bang echoes in the corridor. Sherlock just shoots the masked man at his arm. This will do him enough damage from attacking us.

Frankly, I am not moved by fear when a patch of blood is growing on the man's sleeve. Instead, a foreign feeling tingles my chest. I look away hastily, stopping a thought to enter my head. Yet, I catch Sherlock's eyes. A frown shades his face.

But before he can say anything, a crash sounds in the lab. "Molly," I breathe, finding myself racing towards the lab. Pushing open the door, I see a man locking his arm around Molly's neck, a hand firmly on her nose and face.

Muffled noises come from Molly. "Oi!" I yell at that man, whose attention is snapped towards me at once.

A flash of confusion sparks behind his eyes before the masked man releases Molly in a beat and throws himself towards me. I can see a revolver in his waist belt. I dodge, sliding sideway. "Sherlock," I call out loudly as I avoid the man's fist with ease, "get Molly out of here!"

The man growls in anger as he leaps towards me, which is a big mistake. I squat, swinging my leg under his feet. With a loud thud, the masked man falls onto the group. A sense of disappointment rings in my stomach as I realize he didn't even use the revolver.

I crease my brows and stop the thought at its track. What the hell am I thinking?

Behind me, Sherlock is holding Molly by her arm, who is completely out of breaths. I look up at Sherlock, his eyes boring into mine. My heart sinks further as I slowly discover the meaning behind his pale eyes.

When he catches my eyes after the two attackers fall, he sees it. He sees and deduces the sensation I gain during the process. "Your pupils diluted," he finally says. I slowly absorb his words as the hospital sirens ring.

"Good, Sherlock. I wonder how you pick your assistants," Lestrade says cheekily with his hands on his hips. The officers are taking in the three attackers away. Sherlock reminds emotionlessly. "One that records your cases. One that acts like a body guard. How do you even find them?" Lestrade glances at me with amusement.

I stare at the officers who are working away in distance, desperate not to be engaged into the conversation. Cause the truth to be told, I don't really like the idea of me enjoying a fight.

After a few moments of silence, Lestrade gives up on getting an answer from Sherlock and changes the topic, "so, what do you think of these men?"

"Have a few ideas of who they work for," Sherlock replies quietly. Even though I refuse to look in his attention, I can feel his glare burning me. Another brief silence, Lestrade finally gets the hint that Sherlock is not planning to say another word about the masked men.

"Fine," Lestrade snaps and walks back to Sally, his colleague, who is staring at Sherlock disapprovingly.

"Should we go home?" I jump when Sherlock speaks up again, not expecting him to break the silence. I nod, ready to follow him when I feel a small tug at my sleeve. Looking down, I see a boy at the age of 10 waving a small folded note before my eyes.

Hesitantly, I take it from him. "Is this for me?" I ask. Sherlock turns to look at me questioningly. I shrug and glance back down at the kid. He too, shrugs and runs away. I startle, then slowly, I unfold the note. A chill swims down my spine, sending sparks to my heart.

On the nicely polished paper, a note is elegantly sprawled along the paper:

_Welcome to the game. _

_-JM_


End file.
